


The Party

by narcissablaxk



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), College AU, Dungeons and Dragons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, M/M, Reddie, Roommates, antagonists to lovers, oh my god they were roommates, or really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-10-20 04:09:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20669090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narcissablaxk/pseuds/narcissablaxk
Summary: Richie Tozier has no friends at school. All he has is his annoying roommate and a girl in his economics class who blew him off. But all of that changes when he accidentally gets invited to their weekly Dungeons and Dragons session.





	1. Chapter 1

_Beep…beep…beep…beep. _

Eddie groaned, his hand reaching for his cell phone, vibrating and screeching on his desk. He was terrible at waking up, but for some reason, his advisor had given him an eight a.m. class, and even though they were only a week into the semester, he was starting to feel the strain. 

_Beep…beep…beep…beep. _

He reached farther, feeling the rubber case of his phone just at the edge of his fingertips. He had almost gotten it when a pillow came flying across the room to knock his phone free from his grasp and onto the floor. 

“Wake up, you little nerd, your phone is fucking killing me.” 

_Beep…beep…beep…beep. _

“I would have had it if you hadn’t thrown your stupid pillow at me,” Eddie hissed. His roommate, some moron named Richie, hated mornings even more than he did. So much that he had a slew of expletives ready for Eddie every single morning that he dared used an alarm to wake up before noon. It might have been funny…if Eddie didn’t actually have to be up at the asscrack of dawn, but he did. 

So it wasn’t. 

He pulled himself off the bed and reached for his desk lamp while also carefully probing the floor for his phone. The blue-white light flooded the tiny dorm room, and Richie, the bastard, hissed and covered his face with his blanket. Eddie rolled his eyes and searched for his elusive phone. 

_Beep…beep…beep. _

“I swear to God –”

“Then don’t throw things at me!” 

Finally he spotted it, far under the desk and too close to a collection of spider webs that Eddie had deemed immovable when he first moved in and disinfected the place. Carefully, he tugged it away from the danger zone and switched off the alarm, sagging against the side of the bed in relief when the beeping finally stopped. 

“Thank fuck,” Richie’s muffled voice said from under his blanket. 

***

“You should have just gotten an apartment with me and Mike,” Stan said, pulling out his notebook for class. “At least you would have known your roommates.” 

“My mother won’t let me get an apartment,” Eddie outlined for what felt like the thousandth time. “Because then I’ll have to get a job, and then I’ll get sick and fall behind in school and drop out and be a huge disappointment.” He poked his notebook with his pen, trying to resist the urge to doodle before class even began. 

“You know, statistically, you’re more likely to get sick living on campus than you are at a job,” Stan pointed out nonchalantly. “The showers, the communal living. It takes a toll on your immune system.” 

“Why would you _tell me that_?” Eddie complained, dropping his head to his notebook. “Oh my god, I have to go to the store, I need more Lysol, I – I need some disinfectant, I need Purell –”

“Relax,” Stan shrugged. “You have like five bottles of Lysol in your closet, and I can see a bottle of Purell hanging off your bag from here.” 

“It’s not enough –”

“Besides,” Stan continued, “you said your mother was giving you those meds for no reason, right? I mean, I’m sure you don’t get sick as easily as she said you did.” 

“But what if I do, Stan? What if I do?” Was he having a panic attack? Was that why his chest felt tight? Why was he breathing like that? Was that an asthma thing? Did he really have asthma after all? Was he going to have to call his mother and ask her to make him a doctor’s appointment? Oh God, he was going to die here – 

“Hey, class is starting,” Stan hissed in his direction. “Pull yourself together.” 

***

Richie leaned down farther in his desk chair, hiding a yawn behind his hand. Damn his stupid roommate and his unnecessarily loud alarm clock. He needed his beauty sleep, dammit. Richie let his head fall against the back rest of the chair, his legs extended way too far in front of him, and closed his eyes. This wasn’t too uncomfortable, he reasoned as his back popped, contradicting him. He could fall asleep here. 

He had actually slipped into a doze when someone’s foot caught on his own, and he heard a girl drop a quiet, “mother _fucker_.” 

He opened his eyes and sat up, not to apologize, per se, but to find who had as bad a potty mouth as he did. He caught sight of a girl with short red hair, taking the seat two or three in front of him, he wasn’t sure. Her hair exposed her long, pale neck and a smattering of freckles. In a school full of rich kids who liked to spend all summer tanning at the Cape in their dad’s summer homes, she stood out. 

And he didn’t have any friends here yet, so…

He scooted up two empty seats until he was behind her. How to start a conversation without being perceived as creepy, he thought. Could he really just…say hi? Was it that simple? 

“Good afternoon, everyone, open your books to page 34 and let’s get started,” the instructor, who had been sitting at the table in front of the room, purposely ignoring the students, suddenly sat up as the clock clicked over to exactly 1 p.m. 

Fuck you, Richie thought, reaching for his battered used book. 

The class passed in a blur, and by the time he realized the other students were standing up to leave, he had doodled his dumbass roommate and his stupid alarm clock into the margin of his book and had taken exactly one line of notes. He stared at the one line (the date and the class name) with what felt absently like shame and shoved the notebook and the book into his bag. 

The redheaded girl was just getting up as he did, and when she turned around and caught sight of him, she took a startled step backward. Oh goodie, this was already going well, Richie thought sarcastically. 

“Sorry,” he said immediately. “I didn’t mean to, like, creep on you or some shit but I definitely tripped you earlier and I wanted to apologize –”

“Great, apology accepted,” she said dismissively, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her back pocket. 

“I mean,” Richie continued forcefully. She raised her eyebrows at his tone and he immediately softened. “I am sorry, but I wanted to ask if you wanted to maybe, study for this test together? No one else in this class ever says fuck, and that’s kind of, like, my favorite word, so I thought maybe we’d have something in common?” 

The girl’s eyebrows dropped to where they belonged, but now her mouth was twisting into almost a sneer and Richie realized his mistake too late. Oh god, he thought, she thinks I’m hitting on her. 

“No offense, dude, but I don’t want to fuck you,” she said, and started walking away. 

“I don’t want to fuck you either,” Richie called out to her retreating back. “No offense!” he added, way too late. But she turned back for half a second, a cigarette hanging out of her mouth, and smiled. 

***

Eddie cherished the time he had in his dorm room without his roommate present. He could Swiffer the floor (though was that an adequate enough of a germ-killer?), he could listen to music he liked, he could lounge on his bed, one foot hanging off and onto the floor, and just marvel at the silence. 

He didn’t get much silence back home. His mother was always talking, whether to Eddie in particular or just out loud to keep the silence at bay. When she was, mercifully, not talking, the television was on, full blast. His mother was hard of hearing, and even though the constant sound drove Eddie up the wall, he couldn’t bring himself to turn it down, even when she fell asleep in front of the television. 

But it was only 2 p.m., and Beverly would be by in about ten minutes, so Eddie was peacefully wading in silence, his socked foot just barely touching the freshly cleaned floor. 

Just as his peace settled, it was over; as soon as Eddie closed his eyes, he heard the tell-tale sound of his roommate’s key scraping in the lock, as if the man didn’t know how to unlock a door without sounding like a robber. Almost instantly, Richie’s face was in the doorway, and his passive face morphed into something that looked a little like distaste as his foot hit the tile. 

“Dude, did you mop in here again?” he asked, his voice already too loud. 

Eddie shrugged. “I Swiffered, actually,” he pointed out with a sniff. 

“Okay, well, whatever you call it, you’ve done it every day since you got here, and the clean smell is starting to fuck up my nose,” Richie tossed his backpack onto his desk chair, where it hung pathetically on the side of the chair for a moment before it fell, spilling his already worn notebook and books onto the freshly cleaned floor. 

Eddie sat up on his elbows and smirked. “You mean you’re not used to the smell of clean?” he asked smugly. 

“No, fuckwit, I’m just not used to the smell of a hospital,” Richie bit back, his retort a little colder than usual. 

“It doesn’t smell like a hospital in here,” Eddie retorted. 

“It does,” Richie replied. 

“Does not.” 

“Does too.” 

“Does _not,_ the bottle says lemon fresh.” 

Richie rolled his eyes, but there was a smile playing around his mouth. “Lemon fresh death,” he muttered. 

“What did you say?” Eddie asked. 

“Nothing,” Richie shrugged, falling onto the bed, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“Good –”

“It’s just that this place smells like a fucking dead body storage unit, that’s all.” 

“That’s called a morgue, you absolute imbecile –”

“God, you kiss your mother with that mouth?” Richie asked, leaning back to fold his flat pillow in half. While Eddie spluttered through a nonsensical response, his smile grew wider. “Mother jokes,” he muttered, “got it.” 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

***

There were few things in this new, lonesome college experience that Richie liked better than picking on his roommate. The poor bastard was the textbook definition of anal retentive, and if you even thought about putting a drink on a surface without a coaster, he would, basically, go apoplectic. 

There was something almost calming about knowing exactly which buttons to push, and it didn’t help that Eddie was so incredibly responsive. His face would flush, he’d clench his hands into fists, he’d stomp his feet. Sometimes, if you said exactly the right thing, he’d cuss. Richie made it his daily goal to force a cuss word out of Eddie’s mouth. 

He hadn’t succeeded today, but he was rapidly coming up with a game plan to fix that problem. But, even as he thought it, he liked the silence they were in right now. It wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t quite comfortable either. As far as their relationship as roommates went, this was probably the longest they’d gone without screaming at each other. 

“So…” Richie said, breaking the silence against his better judgment, because apparently he no longer listened to his better judgment, “Eddie. Does that mean your first name is really Edward?” 

“What else would it be?” Eddie asked, tilting his head toward him. His chin was almost resting on his chest, and his stupid polo shirt was unbuttoned for some unknown reason. 

“I don’t know, asshole,” Richie blurted. “Edwin? Ed…mure?” 

“Edmure?” 

“Watch Game of Thrones, oh my god,” Richie exclaimed. 

“You mean Edmure Tully?” Eddie asked. Richie gaped at him, and he smugly added, “I’ve seen Game of Thrones, moron, I just don’t think your stupid incest jokes are funny.” 

“They – they are funny,” Richie muttered. He paused for a moment, at a loss for how to continue. “So…you’re really going to be called Eddie forever?” 

“Edward sounds gross, so I guess so,” Eddie shrugged. “What else would I be called?” 

“Ed? Your middle name? Eds?” 

Eddie scrunched up his little nose. “Eds sounds…I don’t know what it sounds like but I don’t like it.” 

“Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie added. 

“Absolutely not,” Eddie snapped. “Call me that and I’ll call you Dick.” 

“Dick?” Richie replied with a laugh. “Eds, you flatter me, but I’m not into you like that.” 

Eddie’s face flushed red. “You know what I mean, asshole. Dick is short for Richard. God, you’re fucking impossible.” 

“Improbable,” Richie corrected, his smug satisfaction at getting Eddie to curse punctuated by a knock at the door. “Who’s that?” 

Eddie hopped up to answer the door. “It’s my friend, dick, who did you think it was?” 

“I don’t know?” Richie replied. “The police, here to take you back to whatever place you broke out of?” 

He had a million other good comebacks, but before he could tell Eddie who else could be at the door beside a friend of his, the door was open and Richie was face-to-face with…the girl from his class, who regarded him curiously. 

“I remember you,” she said as Eddie grabbed his backpack and lanyard, with his dorm key hanging off of it. “Mr. I don’t wanna fuck you, right?” 

“My name is actually Richie,” he replied sheepishly as Eddie glared at him. 

“Beverly,” she said, offering her hand to shake. 

“What is going on here?” Eddie asked, his backpack now slung over his shoulder. 

“I have Richie in my economics class,” Beverly said. “Today he tripped me and then tried to be friends by accidentally sounding like he was hitting on me.” 

“What can I say, I have a way with the ladies,” Richie said as Eddie turned to him, as if whatever new information he learned was recalibrating his entire opinion of Richie. Richie did not care for it. 

“You really don’t,” Beverly said with a laugh. “We’re going to play some DnD with the rest of our friends, wanna come?” 

“Bev –”

“Yeah, maybe Eddie hasn’t told you, but I’m like…the terrible roommate that he hates and wants to smother in his sleep with a hypoallergenic pillow,” Richie said. “Eddie definitely wants me dead, so tagging along on your Dungeons and Dragons night would probably hugely cramp his limited style.” 

“I don’t want you dead,” Eddie said simply. Richie turned to him, surprised. “Mute, maybe. But not dead.” 

“Gee, thanks,” Richie quipped, falling back onto his bed. 

“You know what?” Eddie turned to Beverly, a new, unidentifiable expression on his face. Beverly shrugged and Eddie seemed to take that as approval. “You should come,” he said finally. “Maybe you’ll be less of a dick if you talk to someone other than yourself.” 

“Give me your mom’s phone number, then,” Richie said. 

Beverly laughed, Eddie turned to her, exasperated, and Richie smiled. “Let’s go Dungeon and Dragon, nerds!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie meets the Loser's Club for the first time.

Eddie wasn’t sure what the hell was happening. A minute ago, he had been looking forward to playing Dungeons and Dragons with his friends, their first session since getting to college, and then suddenly he was filled with a peculiar kind of dread. Dread personified by the curly-haired, expletive-filled, absolutely maddening disaster of a man in the back seat, his knees digging into Eddie’s back. 

“So, like, what is Dungeons and Dragons, anyway?” the man himself asked, tilting his head to the side enough that Eddie knew he was trying to be seen in Beverly’s rear view window. “Board games or like...cards or what?”

“It’s role play,” Eddie answered stiffly. 

“Shit yeah, I can get into that,” Richie chuckled to himself in the backseat, and Beverly laughed. 

“It’s dice rolling and role play,” Beverly corrected. “You go on adventures and fight dragons and other fantasy characters.” 

“Like Lord of the Rings?” 

“Right,” Beverly answered, shooting Eddie a concerned _why aren’t you talking face._

“Sounds nerdy as fuck,” Richie said, and Eddie had to bite his lip to keep from asking, as aggressively as possible, if that was a good fucking thing or not. 

“It’s fun,” Beverly said noncommittally, jerking one shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. “We have fun.” 

“Yeah, it sure sounds like it,” Richie said sarcastically, leaning forward far enough that Eddie was pretty certain he wasn’t wearing his seat belt. “You’re quiet, Eds.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie muttered. 

“Okay, my bad,” Richie said, and the apology was momentarily sincere. “You’re quiet, Edwin.” 

“That’s not my name, dick,” Eddie replied, pulling himself lower in his seat. “Really, Bev, you should have just left him behind.” 

“He was lonely,” Beverly answered, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. 

“Was not lonely,” Richie protested from the back. 

“I couldn’t just leave him,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “He’s like a sad puppy.” 

“I’m right here,” Richie crowed from the backseat. “Besides, I could have been out partying with a bunch of chicks tonight. I just came to be polite.” 

Beverly lifted her eyes to the rear view and quirked an eyebrow, a clear, silent rebuttal that Eddie didn’t understand. Richie, in the back, went silent and even Eddie, who knew that twisting around in the front seat would mean certain death if Bev happened to crash the car right then had to turn around to see what happened. 

But Richie looked mostly unbothered, a clear pink tint at the edge of his ears but nothing out of the ordinary. Eddie surveyed him closely, hoping to catch a weakness, something he could exploit next time Richie opened his stupid, over-sized mouth. Instead, he got caught in Richie’s gaze, hazy grey eyes in the back seat, and turned around sharply, pressing his shoulders back into the seat, as if he could, with pressure, make up for the time he was turned around. 

“You guys are weird,” Beverly said gleefully into the silence. No one answered her. 

***

“Bev texted me,” Bill said, his face still buried in his phone, his thumbs pressing a quick reply. “She’s bringing someone new.” 

“New?” Stan asked, dumping a case of dice onto the table. 

“Did she just find someone on the street and pick them up?” Mike added. 

“I dunno,” Bill said as his phone lit up again. “Oh, it’s Eddie’s roommate. Some guy named Richie.” 

_“Richie?”_ Stan asked. 

Ben, who was arranging character sheets on the table, looked up at the tone of Stan’s voice. “You know him?” 

“No,” Stan said, but he was starting to grin. “But Eddie hates his guts. Like, if there was ever a reason our Eddie would go full-blown super villain, it would be this guy.” 

“I do love an origin story,” Bill said, reviewing his Dungeon Master notes. “I wonder where he’ll fit in.” He flipped through his pages, as if trying to find something in particular that he’d lost. “Wait, do you think Eddie’s okay with this?” 

“Definitely not,” Stan answered. “But it’s Bev so…” 

“Yeah,” Ben said quietly. They all knew what Stan meant. Bev was the one no one could ever say no to. If she had invited Richie along, then Eddie would deal with it as best he could. No one wanted to disappoint Beverly. So they set an extra seat, putting Richie between Stan and Beverly, seating Eddie all the way across the table, Ben noting quietly that if Eddie really hated Richie that much, distance would save him since “Eddie can’t reach that far.” 

They were seated and chatting aimlessly when Beverly shouldered the door open, Eddie coming in after her, his face flushed and his hand tight in a fist. 

“ – I swear to _God_, Richie –”

“I’m just saying, your mom sounds hot,” Richie was saying, and Eddie was rolling his eyes to the ceiling as he continued, “Loud and bossy, just the way I like them. Is she mean, too? I mean….triple threat.” 

“Eddie’s mom called while we were in the car,” Beverly supplied as she spotted her character sheet and sat down. “The uh…car Bluetooth picked it up, and it’s…” she looked up again, and Richie was stifling a laugh and Eddie was visibly trying not to explode, “it’s been downhill from there.” 

“Do something,” Stan hissed. “Eddie’s going to blow his top.” 

“Richie!” Beverly called, and Richie turned to her, the laughter wilting off his face as he realized everyone was watching him. “This is Bill, Ben, Mike, Stan, and, well, you already know Eddie.” 

“And it seems I just keep learning more about him,” Richie said, and for once, his voice was softer, as if he was physically pulling back on his volume. “Hi,” he glanced around at everyone’s faces as if he couldn’t decide who he should be addressing. “I will definitely forget all of your names.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Ben said quietly. 

“Thanks,” Richie said, and his hands were suddenly shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, tight in fists. Eddie watched the pockets move with Richie’s nervous energy. No one said anything for a moment, and Richie jutted his chin at the paper on the table. “So, uh…how does this work?” 

“The empty sheet is for you,” Stan piped up, pointing to the seat beside him. “You can pick your name and class and stuff.” 

“Class?” Richie slid into the seat, his antagonizing of Eddie forgotten, and Eddie used the reprieve to sit down and exhale, his eyes catching Bev’s. She smiled at him for a moment before she turned to Bill, ducking her head down to whisper something in his ear. 

“You can decide what kind of character you want to have,” Ben said helpfully. “I’m a wizard, which means I use magic. My power comes from intelligence.”

“Mike is a ranger, Stan is a paladin, Beverly is a rogue, and Eddie is a monk,” Bill finished. “And I’m the dungeon master, which means I steer the story.” Richie’s eyes followed each person as Bill explained them, his mouth stiff. 

“You know what Richie should be?” Beverly said, and Richie’s eyes jumped to her, alight with excitement. “A bard.” 

“A bard?” Richie asked. “What does that mean? 

“A bard is a magician who has high charisma. He’s usually a musician,” Bill explained. “Do you think that fits you?” 

“Richie’s charismatic,” Beverly said before Richie could answer. Eddie scoffed quietly, stifling the noise when Stan glared at him. “At least _I_ think so.” 

Eddie watched Richie stare at Beverly, as if trying to decide if what she said was a compliment or meant in sarcasm. Was it just Eddie, or did he look…uncomfortable? Almost lost. 

“Yeah, sure,” Richie said. “Bard it is.” 

***

“You were…surprisingly quiet at DnD today,” Eddie said, nudging the dorm door closed after Richie brushed past him, flopping onto his bed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be…polite.” 

“Don’t get used to it, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie mumbled, pulling out his phone. 

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie snapped. “God, what is it about this room that makes you a huge dickweed? You were fine all evening!” 

“I just added a rhyming word after your name, Eds, unclench for half a second,” Richie pointed out, his over-exaggerated arm movement knocking his phone free of his hand and onto the bedspread. Eddie stared at him, brows furrowed, arms crossed, until Richie’s face softened and he sighed heavily. “What are you staring at?” 

“Can you be real for two fucking seconds?” Eddie asked. “For once, just don’t make a fucking joke.” 

Richie stared at him for a moment, his lips moving like he wanted to bite them, and finally groaned. “I just…I don’t know them, okay?” 

“So?” Eddie exclaimed. “You didn’t know me the day I moved in but you still called me a hypochondriac loser.” 

“I stand by that assessment.” 

Eddie sat down gingerly on the edge of his perfectly made bed. “Do you just…not like me that much?” 

Richie sat up, knocking his phone onto the tile floor beneath him. “No, Eddie, that’s not it –”

“Then what is it?” Eddie asked. “Because you’re perfectly nice to Beverly and everyone else!”

There must have been something in his expression that he didn’t like, because Richie looked as serious as Eddie had ever seen him. “I thought…I mean, you’re mean to me, too.” 

“Because you were mean to me first!” 

“Do you want me to not be mean to you?” Richie asked. “Because I don’t have to rib you so much. I just do that to people I think are cool. And, well, you kind of give as good as you get, so,” he shrugged, and Eddie chuckled, just once, because Richie was right, wasn’t he? He was pretty quick on his feet. 

“You think I’m cool?” Eddie asked. 

“Of course that’s what you focus on,” Richie laughed, reaching for his phone. “Yeah, stupid, I think you’re cool.” 

He slid back into his reclined posture and turned his eyes back to his phone. Eddie watched him for a moment, not sure where to go from there. He felt like he learned something significant about Richie and also learned almost nothing at all. There was something insecure in his face, in the wrinkle of his brow, that Eddie found intriguing. Maybe he would learn more about it later.

“Quit looking at me, fuckwad.” 

Never mind. 

***

Economics was suddenly far more stressful than when Richie just had to worry about doing the assigned reading. Now, he had to worry about Beverly. He liked her just fine; in fact, he was probably most comfortable with her. There was a take-no-shit attitude in her, a vein of steel that he enjoyed and envied. But now he had to worry not about Beverly, but about everyone else. Had everyone else hated him? Were they making fun of him now that he was gone? Did he make an ass of himself at DnD, more so than he usually does? He’d tried to be on his best behavior all night, knowing this was likely his one chance at friends, but he had no feedback, other than Eddie’s, which was flawed at best, about how he’d done. 

He felt like he failed a test he hadn’t known he needed to take. 

“Why are you sitting back here?” Bev’s voice shook Richie out of his reverie, and as he turned around to see her, her hand smacked the back of his head gently. “I thought you sat behind me now.” 

“I – well, I – okay,” Richie stammered, grabbing his bag and following Beverly up to her seat. “I didn’t know if –”

“You’re my friend now, Richie,” Beverly said nonchalantly, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, “of course I want you to sit near me.” 

He smiled, his gaze dropping down to his hands, almost bashful, but when he looked up, Beverly was looking at him, her expression pensive. 

“What?” he asked. 

“You’re…surprising, that’s all,” she said. “Eddie’s told me about his asshole roommate, but you’re not an asshole at all, are you?” 

“I _definitely_ am.” 

“No you’re not,” Bev said confidently. “You’re just scared.” 

Richie froze, his jaw tight. Sure, he was scared, scared that people wouldn’t like him, because that was the truth, wasn’t it? People didn’t like him. They didn’t like him when he was a kid, or when he was a teenager, and they wouldn’t like him now. That seemed to be the universal truth. Richie was loud, he was brash, and crass, and annoying, and people thought that was amusing for a little while but invariably it was too much, and Richie didn’t know when to shut the fuck up. So people left. 

That didn’t mean he wanted people to know he was scared. 

“I’m not scared,” he said, and Beverly’s eyes softened. 

“I’m not saying that it’s a bad thing,” she said. “I’m just trying to say that I get it. But the guys? They’re really great, and they like you.” 

Richie scoffed, but Beverly looked serious. 

“We were all losers in school, Rich,” she said. “The Losers Club, they called us. We got bullied, beaten up, the whole nine yards. For years, we only had each other. And then when we could finally get out of that small town, we did, and we took everyone with us. And we left all of the ugly stuff behind. As much as we could.” 

“Sounds nice,” Richie said, but this was a sanctuary he didn’t have, an existence he would never know. His words sounded bitter.

“We know when we meet someone like us,” Beverly said, her smile kind. “And you, Richie, are as big a loser as any of us.” 

“Thank you?” 

“You’re welcome,” Bev said with finality. “Now, we’re going to go to the park tonight. There’s a crappy little lake there that we can swim in. You coming or what?” 

Richie smiled, momentarily forgetting his insecurity, and nodded. Beverly had a weird way of soothing those anxious thoughts with her absolute surety. One day, he hoped he could be as sure as her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gay Panic

The park, Richie thinks, is largely unimpressive; there were hardly any big, shady trees that he liked, and most of the grass was brown and crunchy, but the rest of the Loser’s Club (he still couldn’t get used to that name, but everyone else used it unabashedly) seemed excited by the place, laughing at the run-down brick wall that guarded a demolished building and swinging on one of the dilapidated swing sets. 

Everyone that is, except Eddie. 

“Don’t swing on that, Bill!” he was yelling at his friend, who gleefully ignored him. “Have you ever heard of tetanus? I’m not taking you to the hospital if that death trap cuts you!” 

“Relax, Eddie,” Ben said with a chuckle, “it’s only a little rusty.” 

“And if a dog with a foaming mouth bit you, you’d only get a _little_ rabies,” Eddie shot back, and Richie had to hide his laugh behind his hand. 

“What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole?” Eddie asked, rounding on him. “I know your immune system isn’t up for rabies.” 

“What did I do?” Richie asked, trying to keep a straight face under Eddie’s sharp gaze. “I’m nowhere near the hypothetical rabies, or the real ass tetanus!” 

“You’re laughing at me,” Eddie accused, pointing his finger at him. Richie raised his eyebrows. 

“Everyone is laughing at you, Eds,” he corrected. “Because you’re being ridiculous. Go swing on the swing, you’ll have fun.” 

“I’m not getting fucking tetanus,” Eddie muttered, his accusation clearly forgotten now that everyone was laughing even louder. “I don’t want to die.” 

“Tetanus can’t kill you,” Richie dismissed. “It just gives you…you know, lockjaw and then you probably starve to death.” 

“That’s killing you, asshole!” Eddie snapped. 

“I suppose it is,” Richie agreed. 

“Are you two nerds going to come swim or what?” Beverly asked, her shirt already halfway over her head. Richie was expecting Eddie to protest, to yell that there were all kinds of bacteria in the water and he was certainly not going to get strepto-whatever swimming in it, but Eddie grinned mischievously at Beverly and trotted after her. 

“You guys are really going to swim in that?” he asked. The water was murky and closer to green than it was to blue, but everyone else was stripping on the edge of the water, excited and tripping over the ends of their pants. 

“There was a place just like this in our hometown,” Ben explained. “We used to swim in it all the time as kids.” 

“Yeah, this is nuh-nostalgic,” Bill said. 

“You’re not worried about bacteria?” Richie asked Eddie, who had so far only managed to shed his shoes and his socks by the edge of the little lake. “Isn’t this the kind of thing you would –” he karate chopped the air in half, the way Eddie did when he was particularly agitated, “about?” 

“I have a very sophisticated decontamination process,” Eddie sniffed. 

“Of course you do,” Richie laughed, pulling his shirt over his head. 

“Are you making fun of me again?” Eddie asked. 

Richie had a comeback planned, and it was going to be a _devastating_ zinger, but taking his shirt off knocked his glasses from his nose and he spent the prime comeback-time fumbling for his glasses, hating himself for not wearing contacts. His father told him to wear contacts, why hadn’t he gotten contacts? 

By the time he managed to get the shirt over his head, untangled his glasses from the sleeve, and put them back on, the moment for a comeback had passed, and even though Richie was a firm believer in delivering a joke no matter how late, he was instantly distracted, and his joke died in his throat. 

“Whoo, Eddie’s booty shorts!” Beverly shouted from the water. Stan, beside her, his curly hair wet and matted to his forehead, whooped and hollered with her. 

“Don’t call them that,” Eddie admonished, though Richie would have loved to have the voice to argue because that’s exactly what they were. They were red, tight, and far too short to be normal swimming trunks. Richie looked down at his own, blue and Hawaiian patterned, closer to his knee than his mid-thigh, like Eddie’s, and confirmed it. Yep, those were booty shorts. 

And Eddie’s legs were…nice. They were muscular, surprisingly defined (how, Richie thought, _how_ could they be so defined when Eddie himself was just a huge nerd who definitely didn’t do something as pedestrian as working out?) and for a moment Richie’s mouth was so dry he worried he was suffering from heat stroke. That was a thing, wasn’t it? 

“Are you coming in or what, asshole?” Eddie asked, jogging to the water’s edge and turning back to Richie. Richie could hardly see him with the shine of the sun off the water; he saw more a silhouette and a halo than a person, but it felt like it would be wrong to say no. 

Like you’re saying no to an angel. 

So he followed the angel into the disgusting, cold, murky water. 

***

Instead of immediately taking a shower and washing off the dirty water from the lake (Mike insisted it was a river, Bill claimed it was a pond, Beverly insisted that both of them needed to just shut up and swim), Richie sat on the old, dorm-issued wooden desk chair and watched Eddie’s “extensive” decontamination routine. 

“Stop looking at me, freak,” Eddie muttered, rummaging in the closet. 

Richie crossed his arms. “I want to see this supposed highly effective treatment you have for not dying of sewer water.” 

“It wasn’t sewer water, don’t be disgusting,” Eddie snapped, emerging from the closet with fresh clothes and his larger-than-strictly-necessary shower caddy.

“Oh, yes, of course, you’re right, Mr. Booty Shorts, please forgive me,” Richie lamented sarcastically. His eyes went, for the thousandth time, to Eddie’s legs, now clad in his previously discarded jeans, the booty shorts banished to a plastic bag now bound for the laundry. Still, the red shorts were burned into his memory. 

“Those shorts are way more comfortable than those stupid swim trunks all guys are forced into wearing,” Eddie snapped, pulling a towel out and adding it to his pile. “All of that extra netting in there? What do you think that’s doing? Trapping bacteria.” 

“Yes, whereas adding the bacteria straight to your balls is going to be so much safer,” Richie pointed out. “You got me there, Dr. Kaspbrak.” 

“Shut the fuck up,” Eddie said without any heat. His eyes fell on his pile of supplies, silently making sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. How could he, when he had everything from his dorm on the pile except a toilet scrubber, Richie thought. “Are you going to shower or not?” 

“Eds, dear boy, are you inviting me into the shower with you?” Richie asked. 

“That would be the only way you’d get sufficiently clean,” Eddie remarked dryly, gathering up his supplies and slipping out of the room before Richie could respond. 

Good thing too, Richie thought, because there was nothing he _could_ say. He enjoyed making jokes like that with most of his male friends (or, rather, men who thought they were his friends) because they would recoil sharply, crack a smile, and then laugh together, and then that guy would later tell himself, “there’s no way that Richie Tozier guy could be gay, no way at all, he makes all of those stupid jokes!” 

It was deflection at the basest level, and it wasn’t even clever. Thankfully, most straight men didn’t need clever manipulation to miss the fact that the man standing beside them was queer. They didn’t want to see it in the first place. 

Eddie, though, Eddie was different. He didn’t seem to be particularly bothered one way or the other. None of the losers did. 

Curious. 

***

By the time Eddie had removed all of his clothes, put them in the same bin as his shorts, socks, shoes, and the rest, showered, dried off, and carefully inspected his body for cuts or bruises or any discoloration that might indicate an infection, he had almost forgotten about his roommate. He had almost forgotten Richie’s stupid, messy self, sitting on the edge of the almost broken wooden chair, waiting for Eddie to leave to…what? Change? Shower? 

When he came back, almost an hour later, his skin still pink from the too hot shower, Richie was in a pair of loose-fitted plaid pajama pants and a new shirt, his hair damp from the shower, his clothes in his hamper, on top of the rest of the crap he threw in there. 

Eddie wanted to say something, wanted to remind him that those clothes were probably damp, and if he didn’t wash them soon they would mildew, and then there would be mold in the room, and then Eddie would die, but something about Richie’s relaxed posture, so different from the slightly stiff way he carried himself with the others gave him pause. 

He was navigating his Playstation’s home screen, his glasses sliding down his nose. 

“What are you playing?” Eddie asked. 

Richie jumped a little, turning halfway around to see Eddie standing in the doorway, his eyes dropping to his legs for half a second before jumping back up to his face. “Street Fighter: 30th Anniversary Edition,” he said proudly. He considered Eddie’s face for a moment, as if searching for something. “Are you one of those nerds who doesn’t play video games?” he asked. “Or do you want in?” 

Eddie grinned and held his hand out. “Give me a controller, you’re going down.” 

***

Richie skipped his class the next day. Sure, it was only the second week or whatever, but when one stays up half the night playing Street Fighter and bonding with one’s roommate, one gets to sleep however long one likes. Or so he told himself as he turned off his alarm at 9 a.m. the next morning. 

He was momentarily shaken awake when he rolled over and saw that Eddie had done the exact same thing. He smiled, feeling an immature sense of pride that hanging out with him had been the reason Eddie the perfect student Kaspbrak had skipped his first college class. He slumbered on, satisfied. 

Rather, he was satisfied – that is, until he was roughly brought back to the world by the sound of Eddie quietly arguing with someone. And then, when he was just thinking he could possibly go back to sleep and ignore it, he heard someone respond. 

“I’m not sick, mom, I just didn’t go to class because I overslept,” Eddie was saying, as quietly as he was able. “Please, can I just call you back? My roommate is sleeping.” 

“What is your roommate doing sleeping at this hour? Eddie-bear, is your roommate corrupting you? Did he give you drugs?” 

“What?” Eddie shrieked, and immediately dropped down to an enraged whisper. “I am allowed to sleep in every now and then. Sleeping past 10 a.m. does not automatically mean that I am sick or that I have been doing drugs.” 

“Something is wrong, sweetheart, Mommy can see it,” his mother’s voice was sickly sweet, but Richie knew her game. He knew her game the moment he heard her voice over Beverly’s Bluetooth. Manipulative, mean, abusive. He wasn’t stupid. “Tell Mommy what’s wrong.” 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Eddie’s voice was soft, though from trying to keep the volume to a minimum or from something else, Richie couldn’t tell without turning over and showing Eddie that he was awake. 

“Then why didn’t you go to class? You can’t skip classes and expect to do well, Edward. You won’t become a doctor like that,” she said, her voice vaguely sing-songy. Eddie sighed, loud enough that Richie smiled. There was that fire, he thought. 

“Why are you sighing like that?” his mother immediately asked. “What is going on with you, Eddie-bear? Why are you being so hateful?” 

“I’m not…” Eddie muttered. “I’m just tired.” 

“You _are_,” his mother said, her voice rapidly approaching a wail. “You’re being hateful! Why do you hate Mommy so?” 

That’s enough of that, Richie thought, and stretched. Immediately, he heard Eddie shift on his bed, turning toward Richie. 

“I have to go, mom,” Eddie said, as quietly as he could. 

“Don’t hang up on me, Edward,” his mother warned. 

“I have to go,” he hissed into the microphone before slamming his laptop shut. 

Richie let the silence stretch as long as he dared before he sat up, knowing his hair was sticking out in every direction. “That sounded fun.” 

“Fuck off,” Eddie snapped, sliding down onto his bed, turning away from Richie. 

“Seriously, is your mom seeing anyone, because –”

“If you say one more thing about my fucking mom, I am going to lose my entire shit,” Eddie snapped, and Richie didn’t have to see his face to know that Eddie was probably two minutes, if that, away from either an anxiety attack, crying, or murdering him. 

Richie fell silent, considering his next move. His go-to was cracking jokes until the sad person laughed, but something told him that it wouldn’t work with Eddie. At least, not this time. But still, seeing his roommate curled into a ball on his bed while his computer chimed that someone wanted to video chat made him want to do something, even if it was, ultimately, a failure. 

“Do you need your inhaler?” Richie asked quietly. 

Eddie turned over, his eyes red but concerned. “Are you…asking me a considerate question?” 

Richie looked around the room for an answer that wasn’t Eddie’s red eyes. “Try not to sound so surprised.” 

“The inhaler doesn’t work anyway,” Eddie muttered, pulling the blanket up to his eyes. “It’s a placebo.” 

“What the fuck is a placebo?” Richie asked. “One of those little house things people put in their yards?” 

“Are you…are you talking about a gazebo?” Eddie asked, and there was a definite laugh there, if a weak one, and Richie chalked it up as a win. 

“Okay, so no inhaler, then,” Richie said firmly. “Well, I’m going to go get something to eat from the dining hall, and I think it’s your responsibility, nay, your privilege, to escort me, Mr. Eddie Spaghetti Man.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie grumbled. “And I’m not hungry.” 

“You need to eat, Eds,” Richie pointed out, sliding to the end of his bed. “Don’t make me go over there and make you.” 

“Make me what, exactly?” Eddie asked, and even though there was a playful lilt to his voice, he looked genuinely confused. 

Richie flushed red. “I’ll admit that joke wasn’t as well executed as I’d like, but –”

“You gonna force feed me food, Richie?” Eddie asked. 

“If I have to,” Richie said, getting to his feet, challenge issued. “Now let’s go.” 

“No,” Eddie said firmly, pulling the blanket even tighter around himself. Behind him, the computer chimed again. “Ugh, leave me alone.” 

“Come on, Eds, food,” Richie said, motioning to the door. “This is your last chance.” 

“I’m not hungry,” Eddie insisted. 

“Okay,” Richie said. “I warned you.” 

“You warned me?” Eddie said, feigning fear. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

Richie shrugged and plodded over to Eddie’s bed, scooping him up and over his shoulder, blanket and all. Eddie was surprisingly sturdy, but he was still small. Richie’s unworked muscles had no problem holding him up like a sack of potatoes while he struggled. 

“Richie I swear to _God_ –”

“Swear to me, tiny man, I am your God now,” Richie said, pulling the dorm door open. “It’s time for food, and God dammit, you’re going, even if you’re sad and don’t want to.” He paused, standing in the open doorway. “Do you have your key on you right now?” he asked. “Because, frankly, I don’t want to put you down to get mine. I’m worried that you’ll squirm away.” 

“Great, put me down so I can kick your ass!” 

“Oh Eddie my love, you can’t kick my ass,” Richie said, hooking his dorm key around his wrist. “You can’t reach it.” 

“Richie!” Eddie shouted into the hallway. “Help, I’ve been attacked by a crazy man!” 

“Help!” Richie shouted back down the empty hallway. “My tiny roommate is yelling in my ear!” 

“Five foot nine is the national average, you fuck!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Richie has trouble telling people things about himself that are real and not funny, so here we see Richie Tozier actually sharing a piece of himself with Eddie, and he's real pissed off about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for homophobia mention.

After his economics class, Richie left Beverly smiling at her phone, texting Ben about her their plan to study later, and slipped into the main building of campus, bustling with students just leaving class and trying to get in line for lunch. He wasn’t hungry – he normally wasn’t at this time, but still he scanned crowd for Stan, who was supposed to meet him at the bookstore. 

Of all the losers, Richie was probably most intimidated by Stan. It was inordinately hard to make him laugh, and he seemed to be the one closest to Eddie. That meant he had definitely heard all of the complaints Eddie had about him, both before and after their DnD bonding session. But still, he needed Eddie information, so he was walking into the lion’s den, so to speak. If the lion’s den was a slight Jewish dude with the ability to find absolutely nothing funny.

He spotted Stan by the tea stand, pulling the bag out of the hot water, and stalled long enough to get his own drink, cotton candy flavored. By the time he was done, Stan was standing at an unoccupied table, and even though he wasn’t looking at Richie, Richie felt the pressure of his attention.

“Tell me about Eddie’s mom,” Richie said, sipping his pink can of Bang. 

Stan, who was stirring honey into his tea, stiffened, his fingers tight around the little wooden stirrer. “What do you mean?” 

Richie raised his eyebrows. “You know what I mean.” 

“I don’t want to talk about Eddie’s mom,” Stan said firmly. “Not without Eddie here.” 

“I’m not asking for gruesome details or personal stories,” Richie said, trying to keep the exasperation from his voice. “I’m just asking for…like…general information.” 

Stan sighed, tossing the stirrer into the bin and topping his tea. “What exactly is it do you want to know?” 

Richie watched Stan’s hands, curled almost defensively around the reusable cup. Based on Stan’s body language alone, he didn’t even really need to ask, but he pushed forward anyway. “She’s…overbearing.” 

“Is that a question?” 

“Christ, Stan, I’m trying to be fucking delicate,” Richie snapped. “She video chats him every time she thinks he did something wrong, she calls him hateful, and Eddie is always really upset after she hangs up. He doesn’t even laugh at any of my jokes.” 

“I don’t think that’s a great indicator of his mood, Tozier.” 

“God damn, Stanley, I thought Eddie was cold,” Richie put his hand over his heart in mock hurt, and then sobered. “He said his inhaler was a placebo.” 

“I don’t want to –”

“You don’t want to betray Eddie’s trust,” Richie finished for him. “I get it. I’m not a part of the group yet.” 

“Shut up, Trashmouth, that’s not what I meant,” Stan replied sharply. 

“Trashmouth?” Richie repeated, trying the name in his mouth. “I like it. I’ll keep it.” 

“Great,” Stan waved him off. “I just don’t want to tell you because these aren’t my stories to tell, really. They’re Eddie’s.” 

“He won’t tell me,” Richie pointed out. 

Stan leaned his cheek on his hand, staring at Richie in a way that made him feel rather like he was being x-rayed. “Why exactly do you care about Eddie’s mom? Looking for more joke fuel?” 

Richie scoffed, taking another nervous sip of his energy drink. Something with that much caffeine was a bad idea for a conversation like this – he could feel his anxiety rising exponentially by the moment. “I just…I don’t want to make him feel worse when she makes him feel bad. You know?” 

“So…” Stan said, drawing the statement out, hoping Richie would finish it, “you want to make him feel…better.” 

“Shut up, Stan,” Richie said with a laugh. “I just don’t want to accidentally push him too hard one day and then go missing because he killed me.” 

“Uh huh,” Stan said, taking a sip of his tea like he knew something Richie didn’t. 

“What does that cryptic shit mean?” Richie asked. 

“Nothing,” Stan said with a shrug. “Nothing at all.” 

“Okay,” Richie replied. “That’s a fucking lie, but okay.” He dropped his gaze to his almost empty energy drink, hating it, feeling the caffeine coursing through his system. “I just – I know a – a bad mom when I hear one, okay, I have one.” 

Stan didn’t say anything, but sipped his tea again, leaving Richie sitting in what felt like an accidental confession. An admission of guilt, even though he had nothing to feel guilty for. With a sharp exhale through his nostrils, Richie gathered his energy drink and his phone and muttered a goodbye to Stan before leaving Stan sitting alone at the table. 

***

It was another couple of hours before Stan found him, sitting under one of the big oak trees near the biology building, the ground littered with falling acorns. Richie kicked at one of the little greener ones, watching it bounce away. 

“This is a great place to sit and watch birds,” Stan announced offhandedly, and Richie jumped, even though Stan knew he had seen him approach. “I like to sit here early in the morning. It’s very soothing.”

When Richie didn’t say anything, Stan shoved him over on the bench so he could take the seat beside him. “I would have found you faster, but I had class.” 

A laugh stuttered out of Richie and he pushed his glasses up his nose, sheepish. “You didn’t have to come after me.” 

“Oh, I didn’t,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “I just came here for the birds.” 

“Well, there’s fuck all birds here,” Richie said loudly, and, as if to emphasize his point, two birds flew out of the tree above him. He watched them fly away absently. 

“You know, a lot of us have parents we don’t get along with,” Stan said, and Richie’s shoulders tightened. “I’m not saying we can all relate to your experiences one hundred percent or anything,” he hurriedly added. “But you don’t have to be afraid of telling us stuff.” 

Richie laughed again, an ironic, sarcastic chuckle that Stan didn’t like. “Stan the man, noble as ever,” he said affectionately. “Haven’t you ever heard of over-sharing? Friends don’t like that.” 

“Who told you that?” Stan asked, a sneer curling his lip. “That’s a bullshit idea.” 

Richie shrugged, looking out across the quad, wrinkling his nose to pull his glasses back up. Stan watched him, stubble coming in on his cheek, slightly crooked collar of an opened flannel shirt, his entire being very purposefully undone, careless. 

“My dad used to tell me I was a bad Jew,” he said, so suddenly that Richie turned to look back at him, surprise all over his face. “I was bad at reading in Hebrew, so while I was practicing for my bar mitzvah, he told me he thought I was a bad Jew. He made me sit there, in the synagogue, alone, for hours, reading the Torah, trying to get better at pronunciation, but he never offered to help.” Richie exhaled, and Stan risked a glance at him. He was watching him closely, looking both sympathetic and curious. Curious about what, Stan didn’t know. “And my mom, you know, she just let him. She didn’t want to upset him by contradicting what he said, so she just let her kid get bullied into learning Hebrew. And now? Now I can still barely go to a synagogue without thinking of my dad. He almost took my faith away from me. For what? To make a thirteen year old boy read Hebrew perfectly? No one can read Hebrew perfectly, it’s hard as shit!” 

“I’ll go to the synagogue with you,” Richie said quietly. 

Stan rolled his eyes again, but even Richie could see the grateful smile that played at the corners of his mouth. “Shut up, Trashmouth.” 

***

Eddie loathed algebra. There was always some issue in the equation he was just supposed to know how to solve, and then he’d forget to carry the one, or change something from a negative to a positive, it was exhausting. At the beginning of the second hour of mind-numbing algebra, he was just starting to feel like he was getting it when his roommate kicked the door to their room open. 

At least, that’s what it sounded like. The doorknob slammed against the wall behind the door and Eddie flinched, his angry gaze finding Richie standing in the doorway, looking momentarily alarmed. 

“Didn’t mean to do that,” he said in lieu of a greeting, and nudged the door closed gently, so gently he had to press it into the frame a second time. “Eduardo, put down your homework, we need to talk.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Do we have to talk right now? I’m just starting to understand quadratic equations.” 

“I don’t know what that means, little buddy,” Richie waved him off. “Which means it’s not important. Come here.” 

“My schoolwork is important, dickwad –”

“Eddie Spaghetti, get your ass over to my side of the room, I’m fucking serious,” Richie said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. “We need to talk.” 

Eddie furrowed his brows, his pencil still clutched tightly in his hand. “I – Am I in trouble?” he asked, the words coming out more apprehensive than he intended. “Because, if we’re being honest, you’re the one who should be in trouble. Your laundry is probably the worst thing I’ve ever fucking smelled in my life, dude, and that is definitely including the water we swam in –”

“I want you to tell me about your mom,” Richie interrupted. 

Eddie set the pencil down on his desk, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. “You want me to what?” 

“Tell me about your mom,” Richie repeated. 

“I don’t…I don’t want to,” Eddie stammered. “Why do you want me to tell you about my mom? Is this a joke?” 

“It’s not a joke,” Richie promised, and Eddie believed him. He had never seen him look so serious. That almost made it worse – Eddie could have handled mom jokes; comments that ended with laughter were easier to swallow than sincere conversation. Eddie didn’t respond, and in the absence of his voice, Richie pressed forward. “She just – she ruins your day every time she calls, and she’s always calling and texting and video chatting and you just seemed so…beaten down, and – fuck, Eds, that sucks, you know, and I just wanted to know what was going on so I can help, or not help, or avoid you if that’s what you need. I mean, I don’t want you to get a call from her and then I come in and make another dumbfuck joke like I always fucking do and then you snap and kill me with one of your dumb electric toothbrushes or some shit because that would be a really shitty way to go –”

“Electric toothbrushes aren’t dumb, they’re statistically more efficient,” Eddie interrupted tiredly. 

“They’re loud and I hate them,” Richie replied flatly. 

“My mom is…a lot,” Eddie said, and Richie sat up a little straighter, eyes on him. “I…no one knows everything about her.” 

“I’m not asking for everything,” Richie said, and it was as close to a plea as Eddie had ever heard from him. “I’m just asking for a piece.” 

“Which piece?” Eddie asked. 

“For real?” Richie asked, and suddenly his demeanor shifted from serious to barely contained excitement, or enthusiasm, Eddie couldn’t tell the difference. “You’re not fucking with me, right?” 

“Why would I be fucking with you right now?” Eddie asked. 

Richie shrugged, shoving his hands into the pockets of his baggy jeans. “I dunno.” 

“One day you’re going to have to explain all of the weird expectations you have from your friends,” Eddie said. 

“Tell me about the gazebos,” Richie said, letting Eddie’s words slide by without acknowledgment. 

“Placebos,” Eddie corrected with a sigh, running his hand over his face. “Okay, saddle up, Tozier.” 

“Actually, Stan calls me Trashmouth,” Richie corrected with a smirk. 

“Trashmouth it is,” Eddie answered. 

***

Hours later, even hours after Eddie told Richie what his mom was like, while skirting around the more painful details, completely bypassing her penchant to isolate him from other people his age, forgetting her almost superhuman ability to gaslight and guilt-trip, Eddie still felt drained. Richie had listened, actually listened, and there was something so sympathetic in his response that Eddie could almost call it empathetic. Like Richie understood, fundamentally, what it was like to have a mom like that. But he never offered any stories of his own, no mentions of his own parents, no nothing. 

They had gone to their respective desks, Eddie to keep working on algebra and Richie to flip aimlessly through a sociology book without actually reading anything, and as the night continued to tick by, Eddie was getting more and more anxious. 

Finally, when he finished his last algebra problem (the answer was probably wrong, but complete counted for something), he slammed his pencil down and turned toward his roommate. “Tell me about your parents.” 

Even from across the room, he could see Richie go still. “No.” 

“No?” Eddie asked, and waited for the punchline. Because surely there was one, wasn’t there? Richie had been so nice earlier, he wouldn’t just turn around and be a dick only a few hours later? Right? 

But there was no punchline, and Richie wasn’t saying anything. Eddie crossed his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the hurt in his chest. 

“So you want me to tell you all about my shitty mom, but you are straight up refusing to tell me shit about yours?” He asked. “Do you see how that is unfair?” 

“It’s different.” 

“How?” Eddie asked. “How is it different, exactly?” 

“Your mother was upsetting you, and I was trying to find a way to navigate that without making it worse,” Richie said, still avoiding Eddie’s gaze. “My parents aren’t doing shit to me, so this conversation is un-fucking-necessary.” 

“Clearly your parents are doing something to you, or else why would you be avoiding talking about them so much?” Eddie asked. “People with good relationships with their parents don’t treat the mention of their parents like Beetlejuice.” 

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Richie asked, finally turning halfway toward Eddie, his gaze still determinedly elsewhere. 

“It means you act like I burned you every time I mention them,” Eddie snapped. “That’s kind of a red flag.” 

“It’s none of your business,” Richie said firmly. 

“Yeah, well neither was my mom, but we’re supposed to be friends now, Richie, friends tell each other things like this,” Eddie was trying, very hard, not to shout, but he could tell by the look on Richie’s face that he wasn’t really succeeding. “You don’t just get to collect pieces of your friend’s lives and then not show them any pieces in return.” 

“What do you want from me, Eddie?” Richie shouted, shoving his chair back into the wall. “You want me to spend your valuable study time telling you all about my drunk mom who kicked me out of the house when she caught me fooling around with my high school boyfriend? You wanna hear all the stupid fucking sob stories about how my dad refused to stand up for me because he didn’t want to upset her? Would that make you feel fucking better about telling me that your mom sucks? Because it sure as shit doesn’t make me feel better.” 

Eddie didn’t answer, but stared at the tile floor between Richie’s feet, trying to find the right words to say. What do you say to something like that? 

He settled on, “I guess we both have terrible moms.” 

“Fuck off, Eddie, I don’t want your pity,” Richie snapped. 

“Oh fuck you, asshole, I’m not giving you pity,” Eddie replied, so sharply that Richie actually looked at him, really looked for the first time in the whole conversation, and Eddie could have sworn he saw Richie’s eyes were full of tears. “I’m telling you I get it. There’s no pity there, just understanding. Now quit being a fucking dick and let me take you for some ice cream or whatever it is you like.” 

Richie sniffed, and his lips turned upward into an almost smile. “I like ice cream,” he said quietly. 

“Well, it’s the least I can do for yelling at you,” Eddie said with a shrug. “But you owe me ice cream for yelling at me.” 

“Are we just buying each other ice cream?” Richie asked. 

“I dunno,” Eddie answered. “We’ll figure it out when we get there.” 

“Are we just going to buy things for each other when they’re upset about something?” Richie asked, reaching for his phone and his wallet. 

Eddie watched him do it, a fond smile on his face, “That’s what friends do, asshole,” he said. “And take your dorm key, God, if you get us locked out of this place again –”

“God, petition for Eds to be my new mom,” Richie said to no one in particular, reaching for his almost forgotten key. 

“God’s not listening to you, dickwad,” Eddie replied, holding the door open with his foot. “Let’s go, Richard. Andale!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Family Day at the university, but sometimes your family isn't blood.

A month and a half into the semester and Richie was used to Eddie’s alarm clock. He was used to Eddie quietly mumbling to himself that Richie needed to do laundry more often, that he didn’t sweep worth a damn, that he needed to stop leaving his wet towels on the floor. He was used to most of Eddie’s neurotic tendencies. After about six weeks of them, Richie could find them endearing; mostly he found them endearing when said picadillos appeared after 10 a.m. 

But when Eddie’s quiet cursing and the sound of a spray bottle woke him up at 5:30 in the morning, it was not endearing. It was the exact opposite of endearing. 

“What the _fresh fuck_ are you doing, Spaghetti?” he mumbled, his mouth almost obscured by his bare arm. “It’s the middle of the fucking night.” 

“It’s early morning,” Eddie corrected, his breath coming in little puffs. “And don’t call me that.” 

Richie groaned, his face smushed into his pillow, and rolled over. Eddie was on his hands and knees, yellow gloves up to his elbows, and was scrubbing what looked like the corner of the dorm, nearest the door, with increasing intensity. “I don’t mean to be insensitive,” Richie began, his voice just sarcastic enough that Eddie rolled his eyes all the way across the room, “but _why?_ Why are you torturing me so? Also, I say again, what the fuck?” 

“Family Day is today,” Eddie said as an explanation. “Didn’t you -”

The sentence ended as abruptly as it began, and Richie shifted uncomfortably on his bed. He and Eddie did not address Richie’s aggressive one-sided heart-to-heart beyond Eddie’s apology ice cream cone. It had been about a month since then, and not only had they not mentioned it openly, they hadn’t even referenced it. Until now. 

“Family Day doesn’t really mean shit to me, Eds,” Richie said, trying for nonchalant, but he knew he didn’t really succeed.

“Well, my mom is coming,” Eddie said, his voice slightly strangled, though from the stress of his mom or mentioning Richie’s parents, Richie couldn’t tell. “And she’s going to inspect the shit out of this place, so it needs to be spotless.” 

“It _is_ spotless,” Richie pointed out. 

“It is not spotless,” Eddie argued. “Your side of the room is a mess.” 

“She’s not here to judge me,” Richie said, leaning on his elbows and watching Eddie scrub even more furiously at the same spot. “Is she?” 

“She judges _everyone,_ Rich,” Eddie mumbled. “Whether they thought they were on the docket for her judgment or not.” 

Richie groaned, his eyes going back to the clock. 5:38 a.m. It was far too early to even consider what he was considering, and yet, here he was. 

Considering. 

With an annoyed flurry of cuss words, he slid off his bed and onto the floor, flinching at the dampness that told him Eddie had already mopped the tile once. “How long have you been up doing this?” he asked. 

Eddie squeezed the sponge into the tile nervously. “Three a.m.” 

Richie sighed. How was he supposed to go back to sleep knowing that Eddie had already been up for at least two hours cleaning, probably more obsessing over his mother’s imminent return? “Pass me a pair of gloves.” 

***

“What is Family Day supposed to accomplish, anyway?” Richie asked, leaning heavily against the wall. “The literal only benefit to visiting your family is doing your laundry for free, and it’s not like these parents are bringing their fucking washing machines.” He tugged at the edge of his flannel shirt, rolled up to the elbows, and when the creased sleeve settled just below the crease of his arm, shoved his hands into his pockets to stop the nervous fidgeting. 

“The university is counting on your attachment to your parents,” Beverly said dryly, taking a long drag from her cigarette. They were just outside of the quad, watching the little booths set up. From where he was standing, Richie could see corn dog stands, a cotton candy machine, and a little photobooth that made him want to hurl just looking at it. It was too much nostalgia, too much saccharine disingenuous family time. He knew it was bullshit - this was just yet another way the college would make money off of gullible people. 

He didn’t understand the softness of everyday, suburban life. He had never known it, and when he realized everyone else loved and idolized it, he had grown to resent it, like a child would an absent parent.

“Your dad isn’t coming?” he asked Bev, who tilted her head. 

“Of course not,” she said flatly. “I wouldn’t tell him about this if you paid me. You?” 

“No,” Richie said shortly. 

“Well, I guess that means we’ll just have to hang out instead,” Bev reasoned, slipping her arm into the crook of Richie’s elbow. “I heard that little Mexican food place has killer margaritas, and they don’t card.” 

“Take me there, Bevvie,” Richie said dramatically, and laughed as Bev did just that, tugging him along the sidewalk, careful to stamp out her cigarette and put it in the receptacle on their way out. 

***

Bill stared at his father’s back, his mother’s arm barely brushing against his own. He had managed to sidestep his father’s pointed suggestion that they visit his dorm and had instead distracted his parents with the idea of visiting the Family Day Fair. But now his father was insisting on ordering him a lemonade from the stand, forgetting the Bill did not, in fact, like lemonade at all; Georgie had liked lemonade. 

But there was nothing he could say without revealing that his stutter was making a comeback due to classroom stress. 

“Are you alright, sweetie?” Sharon Denborough had regained a little of her lost color while Bill had been away at school, but there was still something missing in her eyes, something that had been missing since that rainy day when he was only thirteen years old. Bill blinked and looked away. 

“I’m f-f-fine, Mom,” he said, clearing his throat when his mom’s gaze lingered on him during the stutter. “What else do you and Dad w-want to do?” 

Sharon looked out into the fair absently, as if she hadn’t really considered that they could do things other than what they were doing now, but Zach was suddenly passing them both cups of lemonade with big, yellow straws, and she was spared from answering. 

“Where’s that girl you used to have a crush on, huh sport?” his father asked. Bill furrowed his brow. They must be referring to Beverly, but he was pretty sure he had never told his parents he had a crush on Bev. But Zach Denborough was grinning at him, his eyes wide and playful, and Bill couldn’t bring himself to ruin it. 

“Oh, Bev?” he asked, and his mother physically brightened beside him, finally having something to talk about that she was interested in. “I haven’t seen her yet.” 

“That’s the girl,” his father answered. “Bill, drink your lemonade.” 

Bill took a sip, wincing past the taste. 

“I heard some nasty rumors about that girl,” his mother said quietly, almost under her breath. “Do you remember, Zach?” 

“Those rumors weren’t true, Mother,” Bill said firmly, his grip on the cup of lemonade tightening. 

“Georgie would have loved it here, don’t you think?” his father asked, speaking to no one in particular, his gaze turned toward the sun, as if to warm his face. “It’s such a shame he couldn’t be here.” 

Often, when Georgie was mentioned, Zach would talk about him like he had just stepped into the next room, that he was going to be coming back soon, don’t worry. It seemed to comfort him, at least, so Bill never bothered to correct him, or point out the way his mother’s eyes darted away, to a space between the furniture, where she could exist in a vacuum, free from the idea that her other son was dead. Her idealized, perfect only in death son was gone, and all she had left was Bill. Bill, who could have saved his brother if only he hadn’t been sick that one rainy day.

“He would have,” Bill agreed, slipping farther away from his mother, farther away from them both.

***

“Stanley, I thought you said Family Day was a serious event,” Donald Uris’s eyes slid down Stan’s frame, lingering momentarily on his scuffed shoes. 

“It’s...it has a lot of people,” Stan said timidly. 

“I was under the impression that this was a serious event, and yet here you are, dressed like you haven’t done laundry in a month,” his father said, pulling at the collar of his own shirt. He was standing at the edge of the fair, as if he couldn’t be bothered to sully himself with going inside. 

“It’s just a fair, Dad,” Stan replied. “It’s outside. I’m not going to wear a suit to walk around outside.” 

“Donald, it’s fine,” Andrea Uris said softly, her hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Just enjoy the fair.” 

Donald considered his wife’s words, but his brow remained furrowed, his eyes on his son. Stan squirmed under the scrutiny, but after allowing himself a moment of being uncomfortable, tightened his jaw and straightened his shoulders. He didn’t have to feel this way, he thought defiantly. He didn’t have to let his father talk to him like he was still a kid. 

“There’s a nice cotton candy stand over here,” he said, directing the words to his mother, who gave him a half-smile. “If you ask, they’ll make you little sculptures with the cotton candy.” 

“Let’s go see it,” Andrea replied, releasing her husband’s shoulder and allowing Stan to take her arm and lead her into the fair, Donald following sullenly behind. 

“Ben!” Stan called happily, seeing his friend with his mother standing in line at the cotton candy stand. He gave him a grateful hug, tight enough that he knew his friend understood the gratitude in the gesture. When he pulled away, Ben gave him that knowing look that he always had, a look that said he could read him plainly, better than anyone else. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Uris,” he said politely. “You remember my mom -”

“It’s nice to see you, Arlene,” Andrea said warmly. “Are you enjoying the fair so far?”

“Of course,” Arlene replied. “Benny was just bringing me over here for some cotton candy, but I was trying to convince him that he doesn’t need any, does he, Benny?” 

Stan’s eyes landed on Ben, who had been smiling, as his expression went flat. He knew that this was what Ben worried about the most when people from their hometown came to visit: he had been working hard, mostly secretly, to lose weight, feeling the pressure of society and his family to change himself. But the journey had been tough so far, and Stan and the rest of the Losers had been careful about making sure he understood that he didn’t have to lose weight to gain worth in their eyes. 

Still, when they were outside of their group, Ben would hear something and all of his progress, all of his hard work, all of it meant nothing. 

“You _absolutely_ need cotton candy, Haystack,” Stan chirped, catching Ben’s gaze. “It’s a fair, what fun is a fair without cotton candy?” 

Ben pursed his lips together, trying not to smile, while Arlene’s mouth went flat. 

“Arlene, why don’t you and my parents go find us a table, and we’ll get you guys some drinks and meet you there in a few?” Stan asked, his voice firm enough that there was no way to interpret the demand as a suggestion. 

***

“Do you like it, grandpa?” Mike asked, wiping his mouth on his napkin. Leroy Hanlon watched the gesture with a half-smile, and then glanced around the fair. They had walked around the perimeter, talking about classes and school, and had eventually settled for some old-fashioned hot dogs and chips. 

But Leroy Hanlon did not go to college; he understood that he didn’t have to go to college to have a good job that put food on the table, and that knowledge often reared its head when Mike talked about eventually going to school. 

Mike knew his grandfather wanted the best for him - he always had, especially after his parents died, but he felt the pressure to make sure his grandfather understood his choices, even if they were going to put him in debt. 

“It’s a fancy place,” Leroy said with a playful smile. “You sure you don’t miss small town Derry?” 

Mike smiled for a moment before it slipped away. “Sometimes I miss it. But it’s hard there.” 

“Hard when you’ve got people in the cemetery,” Leroy agreed. 

Mike swallowed and glanced down at his empty plate. His grandfather was right, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk about his parents, not when he was in his new sanctuary, a place full of youth and life with his friends, finally free of the whispers of Derry. 

“But you remember what I told you, don’t you, son?” Leroy asked, his voice less gentle than before. 

“Of course,” Mike sighed. 

“One F and you’re coming back to Derry,” he continued as if Mike hadn’t spoken. “And you’ll work on the farm with me.” 

“I know,” Mike replied, his voice sharper than before. “But I won’t get an F.” 

His grandfather looked at him, a knowing glint in his eye, and shrugged one shoulder. 

“As long as you remember our deal.” 

***

“Those margaritas -” Richie started, squinting down the dorm hallway to make sure it was the right one.

“Shhh,” Bev pressed her whole hand over Richie’s mouth. “Shut up about margs before I hurl on you.” She had her head resting on her hand, but since she was walking, her arm was not providing any sort of actual support. Richie considered asking her how it was helping, but when he tried to think of how to phrase the question, all he got was…._hand face._

Richie laughed, loud and full behind Bev’s hand, the sound of it, to his own ears, almost hysterical. “You’re such a lightweight.” How many margaritas had they had anyway? Two? Three? That wasn’t a lot, was it? 

“_You’re_ a lightweight,” Bev argued, shoving Richie away, his shoulder bumping roughly into the wall. “You’re just as drunk as I am.” She straightened Richie’s flannel shirt around her shoulders, as if it made her look more authoritative. It didn’t. 

“I am not,” Richie insisted, standing up straight. “I could walk every single straight line ever.” 

“Every _single_ one ever?” Bev asked with faux-awe. “Wow, remind me to have you take all of my drunk tests.” 

“What’s a drunk test?” Richie asked, trying to keep the giggles from leaking out between his words. Maybe he really was drunk; he didn’t laugh this much when he was sober, right? 

“A test you take when you’re...drunk,” Bev explained, losing her train of thought in the middle of the sentence. “So like….all of our economics tests.” 

Richie doubled over, laughing, wondering at the same time why he found that statement so funny. But the motion of doubling over had sent the dorm hallway into a blur, and before he could stop himself, he was sinking, almost neck-first, into the floor, Beverly laughing above him. 

“What is your fucking problem?” she hissed through her laughter. “I thought you could walk a straight line?” 

“Up and down straight line,” Richie said, as if that made sense. 

A door down the hall flew open, and even from the floor, with his glasses coming off his nose, Richie could recognize Eddie’s face, eyes wide and mouth tight. 

“_What are you doing?_” he said, his voice pointedly quiet. “Are you drunk?” 

“It’s Family Day,” Richie said as an explanation, suddenly deciding he needed to sit up, right then. Beverly watched him struggle with a curious look on her face. 

“Well, my mother is in our dorm right now,” Eddie said desperately, glancing back at the door as he said it, “so if you could not be drunk, that would be -”

“Eddie bear!” Suddenly Richie was transported back to the back of Beverly’s car, when Eddie’s mom had first called, when he realized just exactly what Eddie was dealing with. 

“Help me up,” he muttered to Beverly, who pulled him up so forcibly his shoulder popped. 

“Eddie bear, where did you, oh.” A large woman wearing a pink floral top and sensible shoes was suddenly filling the hallway, and Eddie’s face was bright red, but Richie couldn’t tell him there was nothing to be embarrassed about, not without revealing that he was a drunk mess. “Hello, Miss Marsh.” 

“Ms. Kaspbrak,” Bev said coldly, crossing her arms. 

“I see you haven’t changed a bit,” Eddie’s mom sniffed. “Come on, Eddie dear. I still have to organize your medicine.” 

“Well, uh, mom, maybe that can wait,” Eddie stammered, glancing back at Richie. “I mean, you don’t have to do that in front of my roommate.” 

Sonia Kaspbrak turned back to Richie, her eyes raking down him so sharply he almost recoiled. “Oh, so you’re the boy whose been corrupting my Eddie bear?” 

Unbidden, a joke came to Richie’s head, so suddenly he had to clench his jaw to keep it from sliding out. _I wish,_ he said in his mind instead, choosing to dwell on that particular subconscious gold mine at a later time, when he was less drunk. 

“Mother!” Eddie exclaimed, exasperated. “Richie is not corrupting me.” 

“Of course not,” Sonia said coolly, her lips tight as she scrutinized Richie once more. “I won’t let any boy corrupt my son. He’s too pure for…” she paused, her eyes lingering on the rainbow belt buckle on Richie’s pants, bought in a rebellious gesture after he moved out of his parent’s house, “the likes of you.” 

Beverly, beside him, straightened her shoulders. “Let’s go, Richie,” she said, sliding her arm back into his and pulling him away from the looming specter of Eddie’s mom, her gaze following them both until they were out of sight. 

“- she’s always been like that, Rich, I’m so sorry she said shit like that to you -” Beverly was talking a million miles a minute, her breath hot on Richie’s face. He could barely hear her; all he could hear was a loud buzzing, deep in his ears, and the sound of his own breathing. 

“Richie,” Bev was saying, shaking his shoulder. “Richie. Are you okay?” 

With a swift movement, Richie shoved her out of the way and vomited onto the sidewalk. 

***

“The coast is clear,” Beverly said quietly, looking at her phone. “Eddie says his mom just left.” 

Richie, lying on the floor of Beverly’s dorm room, didn’t answer. His margarita buzz had worn off long ago, sharply torn away from him by Sonia Kaspbrak herself. He could feel Bev’s eyes on him, but couldn’t bear to look at her. He knew what he would see if he looked: pity. He was so fucking tired of seeing pity. 

“It sounds like no one really had a good time at Family Day,” Beverly continued once Richie did not speak. “So we’re all going to go over to yours and Eddie’s dorm to watch a movie.” She stared down at him, waiting for him to respond.

“I don’t want to,” Richie mumbled, turning his head away to better avoid Bev’s face and too smart eyes. 

“Well, you’re going to,” she said firmly. “Eddie is upset, and so is everyone else, and we’re _family._ It’s Family Day. This is part of the job.” She nudged him pointedly with her shoe and jingled her keys. “Move it, Tozier.” 

***

The first thing Richie noticed when he walked into his own dorm was that Eddie was sitting on his bed. He was sitting on Richie’s made bed, the one they made together before his mother showed up that morning, picking at his nails, worrying his lip between his teeth. At the sight of Richie, he jumped off the bed and stood in front of him, socked feet fidgeting. 

“I’m so sorry my mom said that stupid comment, Richie, she’s so horrible, I’m so sorry -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie waved him off. 

“I _do_ worry about it,” Eddie insisted. “I do fucking worry about it, because you’re quiet, and you aren’t talking or making jokes, or any of the dumbass things you usually do, and that makes me _worried._” 

“Okay, okay, Eds, seriously, it’s fine,” Richie said with more feeling, watching carefully for Eddie’s expression to change. It didn’t, much, but the tension in his shoulders relaxed only slightly. “You think your mom is the first person to make a homophobic comment in my general direction? It’s practically my brand.” 

“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev said quietly. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.” 

“That’s not what I -” Richie said, stopping short. “I don’t know what I meant.” 

“She just mad because I told her I wasn’t straight,” Eddie said forcefully. “I mean, come on, I came out to her almost an entire decade ago and she’s still making pointed comments and trying to set me up with her friends’ daughters. I just got used to it because she’s always mean to me, but she knows it drives me nuts when she’s mean to my friends.” 

“The others are going to be here soon,” Beverly warned, looking down at her phone. 

Eddie looked up at Richie, his eyes silently saying exactly what Richie was thinking. _We’ll talk about this later._

Without warning and without apologies, Eddie climbed back onto Richie’s bed and gave him a pointed look, his gaze falling to the mattress beside him. With a private grin, Richie took the spot next to him, just close enough that their legs were touching. 

When the rest of the Losers arrived, they didn’t speak about Family Day. They didn’t ask each other how it went, or talk about what happened. They just pulled pillows and blankets onto the floor, gathered together, and stared up at the flickering television screen, playing The Goonies. 

Richie, from his vantage point on the bed, watched everyone relax. He could see their postures unwind, their eyes soften, the furrows in their brows disappear. He glanced over at Eddie, whose eyes were trained on the television even though he was mouthing all of the words. _This_ is what a family is, he thought fondly, carefully sliding an arm around Eddie’s shoulder. The gesture finally pulled Eddie’s gaze up to his, and Richie was instantly lost in it, the movie in the background falling away to nothing. 

He shook himself out of it, jostling Eddie in the process. “Watch the movie, Spaghetti,” he said, his voice not quite even. 

“Not my name, Trashmouth,” Eddie replied, leaning back into Richie’s arm. 

_Cute,_ Richie thought fervently. _Cute, cute, cute. _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Halloween and Stan and Bev are trying very hard to help Richie and Eddie get together.

“Can I roll to seduce the orc?” Richie asked, the dice already cradled in his palm. Beside him, Stan rolled his eyes. They were well into hour four of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and to say that Richie had asked to seduce every villain the party had crossed paths with would be an understatement. Not only had he attempted (and failed) to seduce a gnome, a black mage, and now the orc, but he had attempted to seduce a barmaid (who threw a tankard of mead in his face), the carriage driver (who had threatened to leave him behind), and, as a joke, Stan’s human paladin character, who had barely managed to dodge the seduction via a counter roll. 

“Just tell him no, Bill,” Stan said in exasperation. “We can’t try to pull him out of anymore failed seductions, it’s getting ridiculous.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie chimed in. “Richie is rapidly approaching his own real-life ratio of romantic success.” 

“You wound me,” Richie said to Eddie, his hand over his heart. He ignored Stan’s comment, which earned him a scoff and another eyeroll. 

“Roll the dice, Bard,” Bill said, his eyes and brow just barely visible over the trifold that hid his Dungeon Master notes and maps. “Let’s see if fortune finally favors you.” 

“Even the Dungeon Master is rude,” Richie said, but there was a laugh in his voice, and he released the die onto the mat below him. It rolled, struggled, and then slipped back to a 16. The rest of the party groaned while Richie erupted in cheers, rising to his feet, pumping his fists over his head. “Prepare to get dicked down, orc hunter!” He glanced over at Eddie and winked, relishing in the way the top of Eddie’s cheeks flushed pink. He grinned and looked away, catching sight of Bev, who raised her eyebrows at him. 

Now what did that mean? 

Two hours later, after the orc hunter had been, as Richie described, dicked down, and the boss had been defeated, Richie lingered near the door to Bill’s apartment, waiting for Eddie to finish double-and-triple checking that he had his keys, his wallet, his phone, and his inhaler so they could leave. But Eddie was done patting his pockets and his fanny pack and was now talking in hushed tones to Beverly, who tossed a glance back at Richie with something that looked like mischief in her eyes. 

Something about that look made him nervous. 

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eleven,” Bev was saying to Eddie’s retreating form, and Eddie gave her a two-fingered salute that Richie recognized as his own. Something about Eddie doing something Richie often did made him smile. 

“You guys going somewhere?” Richie asked as Eddie sidled up to him. 

“Bev is taking me to grab a Halloween costume tomorrow,” Eddie answered easily. “Ben got invited to this Halloween party that Greta is throwing, so he got us all invites.” 

“Greta?” Richie asked. “Disgusting name.” 

“Yeah, she’s pretty gross all the way through,” Eddie said nonchalantly. “She used to bully us in middle school, but Ben’s pretty hot now, so she didn’t recognize him. Introduced herself and everything.” 

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” Richie asked. “Lemme guess…an inhaler. No, wait, a nerd. No, wait!” 

“I’m going as a doctor,” Eddie interrupted, halting the guessing game before it could annoy him too much. “It’s simple, comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about morons not knowing who I am.” 

“I’m going to tell the whole party you’re the guy from Scrubs.” 

“Richie, I’m going to fucking kill you –”

***

It had been three weeks since Family Day, and in those three weeks, Beverly and Stan noticed something very interesting about their friends. For Beverly, it was obvious from the moment she saw Richie in his dorm the first time that he had a crush on Eddie, though whether Richie himself knew or not was unclear. 

For Stan, it was even more obvious that Richie liked Eddie. The way he gently tried to navigate Eddie’s issues with his mother was a dead giveaway. That didn’t mean he approved of his interest, necessarily. That is, he didn’t approve until he saw something he probably wasn’t supposed to see. 

In the middle of The Goonies, Stan had sat up and stretched, planning on ducking out of the room to take a piss. In his exit, he caught sight of Eddie, nestled comfortably in Richie’s arms, his eyes on the television. Above him, Richie was dozing lightly, his mouth slightly open, his glasses sliding down his nose. As he watched, Eddie gently reached up and pulled the glasses from Richie’s face, pausing long enough to brush an errant chunk of hair out of Richie’s eyes. 

There was a tenderness there that Stan had never seen in Eddie, and for that reason, and that reason alone (he kept telling himself), he begrudgingly approved. 

He and Bev had exchanged a glance when the movie ended, and even though they didn’t say anything, they understood. After that they would spend Tuesday mornings, before class, sipping coffee and discussing how to best force their friends to understand what they clearly saw. 

Finally, they thought they had come up with a foolproof plan. 

***  
At 10:45 a.m., Beverly messaged Eddie that she couldn’t take him to the Spirit store for a last minute Halloween costume, but she was going to swing by for blue hair dye and would grab the costume he needed. Eddie didn’t understand it, but Bev quickly sent another text, this one an apology and an explanation that said she had to do something else during the time she said she’d pick Eddie up, and as an apology, she would grab his costume for him. 

He thanked her and slid his phone back into his pocket, not sure why the entire exchange made him uneasy. 

As he was contemplating why he suddenly felt nervous, Bev was putting her car in park in front of the Spirit store, Stan in the passenger seat. 

“I feel bad,” she said. “I don’t like lying to Eddie.” 

“We aren’t lying to Eddie,” Stan rationalized. “You do have to do something else. You have to pick out Eddie’s costume. He’ll thank you later.” 

“But first he’ll hate me,” she pointed out. 

“That’s true,” Stan replied. 

Bev leaned over and ruffled Stan’s hair. “Wait for me,” she said. “I’ll only be a minute.” 

Stan sat in the car, watching Beverly choose what they had agreed on, lingering by the hair dye to pick out her own costume piece, and only when she was standing at the register did Stan pull out his own phone and send a text. 

“Meet me for lunch,” it said. 

***

An hour later, Stan was taking the seat across from Richie at the university cafeteria, a salad in front of him while Richie picked up a slice of greasy pizza, covered in bacon and pineapple. Stan watched him take a bite, then two, in silence, before he spoke. He wanted Richie to have his guard down, to not be expecting what he was going to say. Only then would Stan be able to see what he really wanted before Richie managed to make a joke out of it. 

“So…you and Eddie, huh?” he asked finally. 

The effect was instantaneous. Richie choked on his mouthful of pizza, his face flushing dark red. He covered his mouth, coughing uncontrollably, and still managed, to Stan’s disgust, to splutter through several aborted statements with his mouth still full. 

“Richie, manners,” Stan said sternly. 

With wide eyes, Richie swallowed his food, and proceeded to drain his entire cup of chocolate milk (chocolate milk, Stan thought, disgusting). 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly. 

“Sure you don’t,” Stan said. “So you expect me to believe that you don’t like Eddie?” 

“I – well, of course I like Eddie,” Richie stammered. “I just – you know – like that –”

“Oh, is this the part where you tell me that you don’t like men?” Stan asked, leaning forward. “Richie, hear me very carefully – we don’t care if you like men, women, both, neither, whatever. We don’t mind if you have a label for who you like or not. But you like Eddie. That much is clear.” 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Richie said, his face devoid of emotion. Stan watched him carefully, his plan and lunch forgotten. Perhaps he had miscalculated Richie’s friendship, or his comfort. Either way, he was done forcing the subject. 

***

“Are you sure you don’t want me to dye your hair blue, too?” Bev asked as Eddie carefully painted blue dye into her hair. She was sitting on the floor of his dorm, one of Richie’s shirts around her shoulders. Eddie hovered above her, his hands clad in black gloves. 

“I think I’ll pass,” he said with a laugh. “You brought my costume, right?” 

“It’s in the bag over there,” Bev said, squirming uncomfortably on the floor. 

“Cool,” Eddie said companionably. “I think I got all of your hair.” 

“It just has to sit for a bit,” Bev said, turning to look up at Eddie. “So, while it does, I thought I’d…talk to you about something.” 

“Okay,” Eddie said, carefully peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. “What’s up?” 

“It’s about Richie,” she said, watching for Eddie’s reaction. “Do you think…do you think he likes anyone?” 

Eddie froze, halfway through the motion of uncapping his Germ-X bottle. “What – what do you mean?” 

“I mean, do you think he’s into anyone?” Bev asked. “I can’t really get a bead on it.” 

“Why do you want to know?” Eddie asked. 

Bev shrugged, and Eddie stared at her, long enough that Bev could feel his glare boring into the side of her face. It felt wrong, leading Eddie to believe that she had a crush on Richie, but wasn’t that how so many people realized they had feelings for someone? Once that person might no longer be available, the feelings become clear. 

“I – well – no, I don’t think he likes anyone,” Eddie said quietly, more to himself than to Bev. “You should….you should be fine. Bill and Ben will be upset, though.” 

To avoid answering, Bev stood and checked her reflection in the mirror, prodding at one of her now blue curls. “I think this is about ready to be washed out,” she said, tugging the sleeves of Richie’s shirt farther down her arms. “I’m going to go shower,” she added. “See you at the party!” 

“Yeah, see you,” Eddie said, his voice small enough that Bev almost told him the truth, almost apologized. But she didn’t. 

***

Richie was getting annoyed. The party started half an hour ago, and he still hadn’t left because not only had Eddie not bothered to get dressed yet, but he couldn’t find the shirt he needed for his costume. 

“So you’re a…scarecrow?” Eddie asked sullenly from his bed, where he was watching Richie rummage through his dirty clothes hamper for the fifth time. “Why?” 

“Why not?” Richie asked with a shrug, trying to avoid looking in Eddie’s direction. Ever since Stan asked him point-blank if he liked Eddie, he was painfully aware of how often he was looking at Eddie, touching Eddie, laughing with Eddie. It was all so…embarrassing now. How obvious was his crush, anyway? He hated himself. 

“I’m already lanky as shit as it is, so I might as well go with it,” he said. “But since I can’t find the fucking shirt I need, I’m going to have to go shirtless with overalls, and everyone is going to think I’m just a stupid hillbilly.” 

“Put the costume on, let me see,” Eddie insisted, sitting up straighter. 

Richie, who was already wearing the overalls, just unhooked, slipped his shirt off and clipped the straps, haphazardly dropping the hat on his head. “See?” 

Eddie stared at him, his eyes on something between Richie’s neck and his chest, and cleared his throat. “It – uh – it looks good. I’m sure the ladies will love you in that.” 

Richie shrugged. “I know I wasn’t terribly clear about it when I blurted it out at you a while ago, but I’m not really into women. They’re alright, but not for me.” He laughed, awkwardly, and turned away from Eddie again, who was looking curiously after him, a word of surprise on his lips. “Are you going to get dressed or what?” 

Eddie’s eyes fell to the bag, the one Bev left behind, which held decidedly not the costume he asked for, but something he probably would not ever have the gall to wear in public, much less in front of his roommate that he might or might not have feelings for. 

“You go on ahead to the party,” he said. “I’m going to…get dressed and get there in a bit.” 

“Why can’t we just go together?” Richie asked. 

“I have to do something, Jesus Christ, dude, fuck off,” Eddie snapped, and Richie laughed. 

“Okay, Spaghetti, I’ll see you there,” Richie said easily, grabbing his keys and sliding out the door. Eddie watched him go, his unfocused gaze remaining on the closed door long after Richie’s footsteps faded. 

Did he really have feelings for Richie? It seemed like an easy enough thing to deny, but hearing Bev’s cautious question had shifted things into a different kind of focus. Did someone have feelings for Richie? Why did that bother him so much? 

It bothered him because Richie was loud, annoying, so incredibly talkative that it was a wonder he could ever breathe. That was why it bothered him, Eddie thought with determination. Not because he himself had feelings for Richie, but because having feelings for Richie made no sense. Yes, that must be it. 

But then there was that evening, while they were watching The Goonies, when Richie slid his arm around his shoulders, that his relentless talking wasn’t annoying, it was charming, when his huge glasses were no longer too big for his face, but accentuated his smile, his large, friendly eyes. 

Something had shifted, then, when Richie’s eyes fell down to Eddie’s and they stayed that way, momentarily lost, suspended somewhere beyond a room full of their friends. After that, their bickering was no longer heated, it was just playful. Their jokes were just as mean, but there was a lightness in their eyes that they both understood. It was comfortable, it was affectionate, and…Eddie paused in his thoughts. Richie was only like that with him. Not with anyone else. Surely that meant something, right? 

As if on cue, his phone, sitting on his desk, started vibrating. He glanced at it for a moment before deciding to pick it up. 

“Stan,” he said as a greeting. “How’s the party?” 

“I heard you were coming in a bit,” Stan said. “That better not be code for not showing up at all.” 

“My costume –”

“I’m coming to pick you up, Eddie,” Stan said, his voice stern enough that Eddie knew there was no point in arguing. “So get dressed. I’ll be there in five.” 

***

Stan sat in his car, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the door to Eddie’s dorm building. He had told Eddie to meet him outside in five, but he wasn’t sure if Eddie would really wear the costume. He had predicted, based on his years of experience with Eddie’s stubbornness, that if he made it seem like he had no choice, Eddie would comply, but who knows. Maybe Richie’s influence was too great, and Eddie was more stubborn than Stan predicted. 

Then the door opened and Eddie slipped out, his shoulders hunched, looking embarrassed. Immediately, he caught sight of Stan’s car and hopped in. 

“Don’t say a word,” he said, pulling the short shorts farther down, as if that would help. Stan pursed his lips and turned back to the road, putting the car in drive. 

“You look good,” he said sincerely. 

“Shut up, no I don’t,” Eddie snapped, trying to pull the top half of his costume closed. “I don’t understand why Bev would do this to me. She knew I just wanted to wear scrubs.” 

Stan shrugged, choosing not to answer, and before Eddie could ask more questions, the short drive was over. He watched as Eddie struggled to decide if he was going to get out of the car at all, his eyes falling on his exposed skin. 

“Come on, Eddie,” Stan said reassuringly. “Yours is far from the most revealing costume in there, I promise.” 

“Really?” Eddie asked, his eyes hopeful. 

“Promise,” Stan replied. 

***

Richie refilled his red Solo cup full of tepid beer as his eyes scanned the crowd for Eddie again. He had already seen Beverly, with freshly dyed blue hair and yellow raincoat. Her Coraline was accompanied by Ben, dressed as Wybie. He had caught a glimpse of Mike and Bill, dressed as Sherlock and Watson, whispering in each other’s ears in one of the dark corners of the room, a cup in each of their hands. 

He hadn’t seen Stan yet, but as soon as he thought it, there he was, dressed as Bob Ross, which really looked like most of Stan’s normal clothes more than a costume. And beside him was…

Suddenly Richie’s mouth was very dry. 

“I thought Eddie was dressing as a doctor,” he said to Bev, who slid up beside him. “Like…scrubs and stuff.” 

But Eddie was wearing tiny white shorts, shiny like latex, and an almost open white top, with a little red cross on the front. Even from across the room, Richie could see that Eddie was uncomfortable, or embarrassed and while he was thoroughly enjoying the view (too much, if Bev’s smug expression was any indicator), he suddenly wished he had his scarecrow shirt so he could take it off and offer it to Eddie. 

“You’re welcome,” Bev said coyly, squeezing Richie’s arm and disappearing back into the crowd. 

“Hey, Trashmouth!” Eddie’s voice cut through the crowd and almost instantly, Richie felt his stomach drop. He could feel Stan’s eyes on him from his place at Eddie’s side and it felt like his gaze was magnified. Everyone was looking at him, looking at Eddie, so openly asking for Richie’s attention. 

Before Eddie could get through the crowd, Richie ducked away, into another room. It was safer to admire Eddie from afar, where no one would get any ideas. 

***

Halloween was a bust, Eddie thought ruefully. Here he was, at a party in a costume that apparently several people found very appealing (if the amount of drinks being pushed his way was any indication), but the one person whose attention he wanted was studiously avoiding having any contact with him. 

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Stan asked, leaning against the wall with his own cup of what Eddie knew was water. “Boy troubles?” 

“I hate it when you say it like that,” Eddie replied sourly. 

“So I’m right,” Stan said smugly. 

“Richie hasn’t said a word to me all night,” Eddie said before he could censor himself. Besides, he rationalized, Stan wouldn’t tell. Stan would understand. 

“Do you want him to talk to you?” Stan asked leadingly. “Because you know how Richie is. If he sees you having fun, he’ll have to join. He can’t help himself.” 

“You’re right,” Eddie said thoughtfully. 

“Eddie!” Bill and Mike called from the makeshift dance floor. “Come dance!” 

“I think I just found your fun,” Stan said, nudging Eddie toward the dancing. “Go, Richie will follow.” 

***

“Why aren’t you talking to Eddie?” Beverly asked, passing Richie another cup of beer. “He was looking for you.” 

Richie avoided her gaze, choosing instead to look into the depths of his beer. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Okay, moron, but the crap,” Bev said sharply. “You like him, he likes you, go talk to him about it before you spontaneously combust.” 

Richie narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like you and Stan are tag-teaming on some weird scheme?” 

Beverly shrugged, taking a sip of her own beer. “Why do you care?” 

“I don’t like being manipulated,” Richie replied. “And I don’t like being confronted with things I’d rather not talk about.” 

“Yeah, no one likes that, Rich,” Bev pointed out. “That’s common sense. We aren’t trying to convince you to be open with everyone, we just want you to be open with Eddie.” 

“If I go talk to him, will this conversation cease?” Richie asked. 

“Absolutely.” 

“I kind of hate you, Bev,” Richie replied, passing her his drink. “And Stan.” 

“We know,” she said with a wink. 

***

“Richie incoming,” Bill said as Eddie bounced to the music. “Look alive.” 

“What does that mean?” Mike asked with a laugh. 

“It means be cool,” Bill said, his face flushed from booze. “I know…I know what I meant.” He laughed and slipped sideways, and Eddie had to catch him by winding an arm around his waist. 

He turned to survey Bill’s face more completely but before he could, Richie caught his attention, standing just on the edge of the dance floor. His eyes were on Eddie’s hand, around Bill’s waist. There was a tension in his brow that Eddie wasn’t used to, but it made him nervous. He passed Bill over to Mike and made his way to the edge of the dance floor, beside Richie. Even then, when they were standing next to each other, Richie avoided looking at him. 

“What’s wrong with you, Trashmouth?” Eddie asked gruffly. Richie jumped and glanced at him before he looked away once more. “You haven’t spoken to me all night, you won’t look at me. What, do you hate this stupid costume that much? It is pretty ridiculous.” 

“That’s not it,” Richie said, his voice barely heard over the music. “I just – do you –” he shook the thought free from his mind and started again. “Bill’s costume is pretty cool.” 

“Yeah,” Eddie said warmly. “Bill always has cool costumes. But he’s done Sherlock before, so it doesn’t really count.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Richie said, as if he wasn’t really listening. 

“Okay, I’m going to leave you to this weird mood you’re in, because you’re starting to piss me off,” Eddie retorted, trying to pull his shorts farther down, but even as he did it, he knew it was just a nervous movement. It didn’t help anything. Richie’s eyes followed his movement carefully, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. 

He started to walk away, and when Richie didn’t stop him, came stomping back. “You aren’t even going to stop me?” he snapped. “God, Richie, what is your problem?” 

“Do you like Bill?” Richie asked suddenly, as if Eddie’s previous questions hadn’t been mentioned. Eddie stared at him, momentarily lost for words, and Richie’s face fell. “Okay, good to know,” he said, stepping away from Eddie and toward the crowd. 

“No, Rich, wait,” Eddie grabbed him by the arm, but Richie was still moving, weaving between people, as if he didn’t even realize Eddie was clinging to his arm. But still, Eddie hung on. “I don’t like Bill, you idiot, I was just trying to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over and get trampled by other drunk idiots. Richie, you fucking asshole, would you stop for one goddamn second?” 

Richie glanced back at him, his gaze unfocused. Eddie watched as Richie eyes found his own, then his mouth, then his bare chest, and back up again. 

“Richie, stop, you fucking jackass!” 

He screeched to a stop, so quickly that Eddie slammed into his back. He didn’t bother to turn around to see Eddie. “So you don’t like Bill?” 

“No, you dipshit. Besides, Bill likes Mike. I like…” the words, so easy when they could be used to shut Richie up, died in his throat as Richie’s eyes found his again. Could he say it out loud? What if Richie thought it was a joke? What if Richie treated it like a joke? He wasn’t sure he could take that. 

“You like…?” 

Suddenly, Eddie remembered Bev’s words from earlier. “Who do you like?” he asked instead. 

“This is so high school,” Richie groaned, running his hands through his hair. “God, I thought when you get to college you just get to sleep with whoever you want as long as they’re also cool with it. I didn’t think there’d be stupid feelings and crushes and all that shit.” 

“You thought that once you got your diploma you could just fuck around all you wanted?” Eddie asked incredulously. Richie shrugged. “I – I sometimes wonder if you are really as stupid as the shit you say.” 

Richie laughed, and the light returned to his eyes for just a moment. “It does seem kind of stupid when I say it out loud.” 

“Should’ve sounded stupid when you said it in your head,” Eddie grumbled. 

Eddie was suddenly aware that they were at the back door of the house, halfway outside. The sound from the party was significantly diminished, so Eddie could finally hear himself think. Richie chuckled and nodded. 

“So who is it?” he asked. 

Eddie swallowed. “Who is what?” he asked, playing dumb. 

“Who do you like?” Richie asked. 

“I thought you thought this was all high school?” Eddie said nervously. “It…it doesn’t really matter, right?” 

Richie surveyed him closely. “If…if you think it doesn’t matter,” he offered. 

Eddie scrutinized Richie’s expression, searching for the correct answer. “I – I don’t think we should talk about it right now,” he said, trying for lightness. “It’s a party, we should party.” 

Richie blinked once, twice, and then a third time. “You’re right,” he said, offering Eddie his hand. “Care to dance? That costume deserves to be seen in motion.” 

Eddie flushed, taking Richie’s hand. “What – what does that mean?” he asked. 

Richie looked down at him, something unreadable and tempting in his gaze. “I think you know.”


End file.
